


Cannonball

by dogeared



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Un<em>think</em>able quantities of pond scum, and, at a rough estimate, twelve gallons of mud, and at least forty-seven tadpoles."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cannonball

"Pond scum," Rodney says sadly, contemplating his grubby fingernails by the light of the campfire.

John's knees creak when he lowers down next to him. Rodney's face is light and dark, skin flushed pink across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose where it's not obscured by inky shadows. John offers, "It'll probably wash off, some good soap, you know," but Rodney's on a roll now.

"Un_think_able quantities of pond scum, and, at a rough estimate, twelve gallons of mud, and at least forty-seven tadpoles."

Today's "Science Day" had involved a green pond, a big bucket, and all the tadpoles Torren could scoop up with a net and his chubby toddler fingers.

"Ronon says they're good eating," John teases, and Rodney shoves him and mutters, "Oh, you _would_ say that," but John had watched the careful way Rodney helped Torren empty his bucketful of fat tadpoles back into the water, tut-tutting and gentle, and then blustered about the mud on his shoes and his ruined pant cuffs until Torren was giggling so hard he was all but rolling on the ground.

Scum of any kind wouldn't have dared show itself anywhere near the Sheppard family lake cottage, but John had loved that lake—the feeling of the silty bottom squishing between his toes, swimming until his teeth were chattering and his fingertips were pruned, swimming until it was almost dark.

He kisses Rodney like jumping off the dock—a free fall, a giddy whoop building up in his chest, a rush of freedom that feels like joy. Rodney's mouth is cool from the beer he's been nursing and all warmth underneath that, and in the dark, he kisses John back carefully, gently, low noises caught and muffled in his throat, fingers wound into John's sleeve like a swim line, showing him the way to shore.


End file.
